


Sweet Surrender

by 2Nienna2



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brief appearance by Melian, Dreamsharing, F/F, Past Míriel/Finwë, Sleep and Dreams, TRSB20, The Valar, Years of the Trees, gestures of affection, supportiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26157277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Nienna2/pseuds/2Nienna2
Summary: When Míriel’s body is found in Lórien, Estë goes to talk with her fëa in the Halls of Mandos. They enter Míriel’s dreams together, to find healing and spend time with each other.
Relationships: Estë & Irmo | Lórien, Estë/Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë
Comments: 13
Kudos: 6
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firstamazon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstamazon/gifts).



> The gorgeous art which inspired this fic and is embedded below is made by firstamazon!
> 
> Many thanks to [Sleepless_Malice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice%E2%80%9D%20rel=) for beta-reading! Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> The title is from the Sarah McLachlan song of the same name.

  
  
Estë lay on her back, dimly aware of the grass tickling her body as she enjoyed the process of falling asleep. Her head was circled by dense ash brown curls, poufy like a cloud. Her skin was a rich sepia, and she had dimples in her cheeks. She wore practical, khaki clothes, as usual.

She gazed at Laurelin, taking in every detail of its golden-glazed drooping leaves. It started to get blurry as her eyes wanted to close, so she went back and forth for a minute— eyes open, shut, open, shut— until she couldn’t any more and let her eyes close, face feeling suitably weighted down.

In the blackness, she could still feel yellow flowers and a slight breeze. There was something else too. A sensation of slowly trickling inward. As if her body was opening up and, like water, carving space that wasn’t there before out of rock. Ulmo must do that all the time, she thought amusedly.

After a few minutes of lying there sinking further and further in, color started to splash through her mind. At first it was dark purple, in nebulous dark splotches that disappeared almost as soon as they had come, only to be replaced by different dark splotches in some other corner of her mind’s eye. And then: “Aah,” she sighed internally. Calming pastel pink.

“Estë, Estë! Come quick!” Melian’s voice was at a higher pitch than Estë was used to.

Estë stretched her arms.

“Eeeeestë! NOW!” The voice was now shockingly insistent.

Grumbling slightly at being disturbed, Estë rose and followed after Melian. Down Ezellohar, past the lake and the pine trees, they walked until at last they reached Míriel’s favorite resting place. And there was Míriel! She felt wrong, off. Estë looked from Melian to Míriel before sinking to the ground. With her hands curled into and around the dirt, she reached out her mind toward Míriel’s. Deeper. Deeper. She was legitimately getting frightened now as she swirled throughout Míriel’s brain and body. Nothing.

Tears started rolling down Estë’s cheeks, big, hot tears. That was rather unexpected. She didn’t feel sadness. Instead, her heart was racing like it never had before, except during the Music. But it wasn’t the same. Not really. Now it was dizzying and overwhelming rather than resplendent, now she felt the Earth shaking along with every breath. Up. Down up down up down up down. Estë screamed. She pushed the emotion out in waves. What was happening to her?

It took Estë a few moments to recover from how she felt, but the task at hand was more important than her own feelings.

“Her fëa is gone,” Estë said authoritatively. “Has anyone thought to ask Mandos if he received it?”

“N...no,” Melian responded. “We called you as soon as we realized.” Melian gestured to her fellow Maiar unnecessarily. “We have been feeling her body. It’s only barely warm. We think… I think… it might completely fail. Surely this is some kind of mistake? Why would a fëa and hröa separate?”

Estë’s expression softened. “I don’t know… I don’t know. But I do know that this was no mistake. Míriel’s wrist muscles are still pulsing with decisive intensity.”

“If it was purposeful,” Melian said slowly, considering “then it will be incredibly hard to bring her back for she clearly doesn't want to be alive anymore. There might be a chance if you can reach out to her fëa. We Maiar can tend to her body while you plead for access to her fëa?”

Estë fidgeted. “It will never work. Manwë has never understood my talents.”

Melian stepped closer. “No. Don’t ask Manwë. Ask Námo. The Lord of the Dead may be able to arrange things that others would not...unrecorded things. He certainly has before.”

Estë didn’t ask. She didn’t have to ask, because she had heard rumors from Vairë that Melian had convinced Námo to let her explore Beleriand through the memories of dead elves.

“And besides,” Melian continued. “It’s your business far more than anyone else’s. A soul came here wanting rest, and it suited her, for a time; but now she’s grown weary even of this peaceful place and is looking for something darker, something more permanent. If you can show her how magical your rest is, if you can carefully guide her through memories and help her find purpose, I’d say you have a fighting chance of bringing her back.”

“Thank you Melian. You are wise.”

They hugged.

—————————————————————

Estë knocked fiercely on the door of the Halls of the Dead.

“Námo? Have you received the fëa of Míriel?”

Námo opened the door, skin so pallid as to be partially see-through, and shining with an unnatural purple-tinted light. He wore an ebony cloak made with such an excess of fabric that it flowed and folded over itself, and spread a good two feet past him on either side. He would have cut a menacing and intimidating figure had Estë not known him so well.

He ushered Estë inside, as graceful and gracious as ever before he spoke. “Yes. She is currently undergoing memory probing.”

“Memory probing?” Estë asked alarmedly.

“Non-invasively, of course. She doesn’t even know it’s happening. We just look through her memories for research purposes, to see how she formed her identities. It also helps us to understand her better, so we can help her. And of course… she’s the first Valinorean elf, so it’s all very exciting to see how that affected her psyche!”

Námo had always been overly excited about the mental states of the Children. Estë had given up on fully understanding them a long time ago, and just tried to be accommodating.

“Will you show her to me?” Estë asked. “By which I mean I need to see her. Take me to her.”  
Námo just nodded and opened the enormous stone doors. The Halls were cavernous. Estë could feel the air and sound waves whistling above and around her — and it was strangely new-fangled. It matched some of the architecture she had glimpsed briefly in the Music, not the architecture of today. Furthermore, it appeared to be a patchwork of lots of different future times and places, not just one.

There was some sort of clear substance covering the floor, so that Estë could see the Halls of Mandos were built on a number of tunnels, and that moles and rabbits and other unidentifiable creatures, all dirt-mussed, were running around beneath. The walls were excessively, skillfully ornate, patterned in deep blues and reds interwoven with a softening tan. The curved ceiling was made of metal, with little bubbling pieces sticking down. And the arches! There were mile high arches all around, seemingly serving no purpose save their beauty.

“Námo just has to rub it in our faces, doesn’t he. Has to be a few ten thousand years ahead of the rest of us. Well, we all know he’s a seer, so enough already!” Estë wasn’t genuinely aggravated. It was more an amused annoyance that she was enjoying repeating in her mind.

“Ahem,” Námo interjected. “We are here. And I can hear you, you know.”

Estë did know. She had never been able to contain her thoughts the way so many of the other Valar did. Thoughts just spilled out of her, unbidden. Or nothing would come, the fount would be shut, at times when she desperately wanted to share her thoughts. Or when others wanted her to share them (then she didn’t mind so much.)

She opened the ornately filigreed iron door. Námo’s design, she was sure of it. In the Halls of Mandos, as in dreams, color was not just color, but a substance all it’s own that could be molded and shaped. Míriel’s room was clothed in a dark, viscous mulberry light that was cut through by streaks of cooling heather. Color was also a language of feeling. It was Estë’s most comfortable tongue, and Námo and Irmo’s as well. That was one of many reasons Irmo and she were so well suited for each other.

And there was Míriel! Estë was surprised to see her taking a physical form. She reasoned that perhaps being without one had made Míriel’s fëa so profoundly uncomfortable it had invented one, and Námo must have allowed it, seeing the increased wellbeing it brought her. Wispy and clear, Míriel looked as though she was made of water, or smoke that could be scattered at a moment's notice. Estë reached out her hand and saw Míriel rippling. But she wasn’t fooled by her soluble appearance. The fëa is the strongest substance in existence, far more powerful than the bodies of even the most virile elves. But it was always the nature of this world that the powerful be cloaked in inconsequential disguises and the feeble; strong. It was an upside down world sometimes…

“Míriel is here, right now,” Estë reminded herself. Now that she was here, Estë wasn’t sure how to commence interaction. She turned to Námo instead, voice low and quiet and monotone. “Has Míriel spoken yet?”

“Not yet,” said Námo. “So far she has focused on lengthening and brushing her hair… maybe that’s a distraction mechanism!” He whipped out his notebook to write something down.

Estë saw this now. How had she not noticed before? Míriel’s hair was long, longer than it had ever been in life. It was stick straight and silver and flowing, but it was not shiny. It seemed the most earthly part of her — like a rocky outcropping, or perhaps, alternately, a pencil drawing. Each strand stood out, refusing to blend into one whole, and yet fitting together to form the full, magnificent image. It reached down her legs and to her feet. Not that she had feet, exactly. Her legs sort of just segued into the room, for in the Halls of Mandos everyone’s room was an extension of themself. If the fëa was full of grief and anger, the room would show it, as it would if they were full of relief.

“Námo, please leave,” said Estë. She didn’t love the idea of being left in here without any support, but she had a hunch that Míriel would prefer to speak to her alone.

“How can I help you?” Estë asked.

Estë lit a candle inside her mind, letting it begin to warm all the tense parts. She then kicked herself internally, for of course she knew how to help. She was the Vala of healing! But she didn’t really, did she? Nothing like this had ever happened before. Her skill had never been truly tested, so maybe it didn’t exist. Maybe she had just been pushed into place, and actually had no healing skills whatsoever. “NO! I will not go down this path, certainly not now.” She could work much more effectively if she could get Míriel’s opinion, listen to what Míriel wanted and needed. Just common sense, that. So, “How can I help you?” was a completely reasonable question.

“I don’t know,” said Míriel, her voice soft and lifting. It’s practiced, Estë realized. “I feel fine, I think. Being here is not as relaxing as I had hoped.” Her voice rose now, both in speed and in volume; Estë could practically see her struggling to keep up the facade of calm. “Everyone still expects things of me, I can see it! You and Námo and all of Valinor!”

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Estë. “But you do realize that ‘all of Valinor,” as you say, is deep in mourning over your tragic death.”

“How could I not realize! It weighs on me still. Most of all, leaving my son…. maybe it was wrong of me.” A few tears trickled down her face and into her mouth, and although Estë could tell she was pained, she looked no less fiery. “While I was birthing him, I saw so many visions of what he will one day accomplish, both wondrous and despicable. How can you expect me to fathom that!” Her voice became brittle. “All of that… directly traceable to me. Where do you even begin in processing such a thing? And I don’t believe for one second that it isn’t all planned! His accomplishments directly hinge on his grief about my death, on how lonesome he becomes! How could you do this to us? It’s not like I have much choice, in the end.”

Estë just stared at her for a moment. “I am in this world just as you. I was never even told what would occur. I was only told that my purpose was to heal and comfort as many as I can, which I suppose is more than you were given. Oh, and something vague about ‘things will get worse.’ If Vairë and Námo know, they have told me not. As for choice, I have no idea. But I do have trust — trust that this world is ultimately headed for healing. And if Arda is nothing but a play, in which we are tossed around by Eru’s vague discontent and all my lines and motions are preplanned, then, well…” Estë shook her head and moved her arms all around for emphasis, “there’s certainly nothing I can do about it, so I might as well throw myself into my part. That’s the natural inclination anyway.

Míriel looked at her suspiciously. “You’re doing that now, aren’t you. Acting. In the non-metaphysical sense, that is. Or both, for all we know.”

“Y-yes,” said Estë. “I thought translating my words into motion would allow them to be more fully felt. But you are right that it was not spontaneous. Anyway, we are getting diverted. Did you only stop wanting to live when Fëanáro was born? Or does this go back farther?”

“Fëanáro took a lot out of me, both physically and emotionally. After he was born I was feeling faint and unsteady and full of grief, and it didn’t go away. But the grief was not new, only compounded, so I think it would be more accurate to say he was the last straw. The physical ailments, too, put a pattern that had always been there into stark light, because even when I was weak and could barely get through the day, I was expected to act the same, and no treatments were even attempted, because it was assumed I would just “get better.” I never did. They were so afraid of sickness they pretended it didn’t exist.”

Estë gently touched Míriel’s cheek. Míriel looked away, but also leaned in, and seemed to relax slightly at her touch. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. There is certainly much that could be changed about Valinor, and if you’re comfortable with this I will voice your concerns at the next council and fight for your position. Because you’re absolutely right. Others will get sick, even in supposed paradise, and they cannot be shoved aside.” Estë paused for a moment. “Is there anything else that influenced your decision?”

“I was never meant for life in Tirion, especially life in the palace. It’s much too bright and much too crowded and much too loud.”

“I agree with what you said about Tirion,” said Estë.

Míriel swept her arm around herself. “And I could never turn off— not ever. I was constantly being shoved at more people, and constantly being watched, even when I was supposedly given “time off.” Everyone had such a high opinion of me, which sounds like something I shouldn’t be complaining over, I know. But they practically deified me, the way every action was expected to be just so! If I showed the slightest hint of weakness, unexplained emotions, or not fitting my public persona — which I certainly never consciously built— all of Tirion would be clamoring at my door. It was stifling, even in my own home! There’s something very wrong with Valinor.” Míriel turned towards Estë again, face sincere. “It’s just that I’m the only one who couldn’t hold it in anymore, who had to show it. Too many pressures confounding from all sides.

Finwë really did care for me, but he did not understand me. He was overpowering; good with words, same as I am, but he used those words to create fear in all of us, though I’m not sure he realized he was doing it. He was wonderful too — passionate and engaged, deeply caring, and gentle and loving when he wanted to be. He wanted me to have more children, and soon.” Míriel’s face twisted in anger. “He saw how painful Fëanáro was, and he wanted more! He kept insinuating that it was time, or that it would be soon, and I had barely recovered! The prospect filled me with looming dread. So I couldn’t…” Her voice caught. “It couldn’t be the same… I couldn’t live like that anymore. I have lost much in dying, but it was the only viable option. I am scared for my family without me (which only adds to the grief that I was always supposed to hide!) but I feel such exhilarating relief at being wholly cut from that world.”

“Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me,” said Estë. She meant it, even if it pained her to see and hear about Míriel’s anguish. “In truth, I’m not sure what response I can give. I don’t believe there is ever only one option, but I can see why you feel that way. And after listening to your perspective, I no longer feel that returning you to life should be my goal, although if at any point that changes I will certainly work to do so. I want to take you to the Gardens of Lórien and help you to explore yourself in dreams. Will you come with me?”

“Is that allowed?”

“Not officially. But I think it would be a good thing, and Námo will allow it. We would only meet in Telperion’s hours, so there’s no worry of others knowing or watching.”

Míriel smiled. “I would like that. I would like that very much.”

“Wonderful,” said Estë, tickled at how easy and diplomatic it had been (and yet something she couldn’t name had stirred when Míriel responded affirmatively. It was...nice.) “I’ll come get you tonight.”


	2. Chapter 2

Estë wandered around the Garden that afternoon, especially the cultivated areas. Some of the plants needed watering, and others needed to be pulled so that the rest could grow. While on a typical day such tasks might be left to lesser Maiar, today it was helping to clear her head. When she was done, she rubbed her hands back and forth and patted them along her dress in order to get the dirt off. Then she went to see Irmo. 

“Irmo?” she called, knocking on the door of their cabin. They mostly lived outside; it’s not like the elements affected them, and they so loved the Gardens. But they had a cabin — to store supplies, to write in the shade, or just to be certain of privacy. The privacy was for the sake of conversing or spending time alone — they didn’t need privacy for the usual reason, as they didn’t do anything that would warrant being found in a lovers’ embrace. 

“Come in,” Irmo called, clearly distracted. Estë found him bent over his desk, hurriedly writing. His hair was straight and black, and shorter than that of most of the Valar, with a few tufts artfully placed to create a balanced appearance. He wore vivid bright blues and greens, which shone against the beige of his skin. There was something playful and almost childlike about his appearance, despite the adult body which he inhabited. He was on the taller side, and this often showed when he had to bend down to reach a paper or a snack.

Estë looked closer — he was writing an outline for someone’s dream. 

Irmo had once told her he found that dreams turned out best when he got them down in a flurry of inspiration, and sent them off to the receivers' subconscious minds without much editing. “By now I trust my creativity,” he had said, “enough to know that metaphors and meanings will seed themselves, many of which I might not even be aware or consciously! And besides, it’s not like I have full control. The mind of the dreamer always polishes and edits the content for the most personalized and emotional fit. Amusingly, even those who pride themselves on following me and taking my messages at face value, without any wishy washy personal biases getting in the way, well, sometimes those are the ones that change my visions most drastically. But I don’t mind. Not at all. The collaboration between myself and the dreamers; watching the seeds grown and the understanding of their meaning shift (and oh! what certain people will do will them) why, that’s the best part of my job! Along with coming up with the dreams in the first place, that is. It’s sometimes difficult, but I know I’ll never tire of it.” 

Suddenly reminded of what she wanted to talk about, Estë put a hand on Irmo’s shoulder to get his attention. He continued writing for a few seconds and then looked up at Estë. She said in mindspeak, “I agreed to start meeting with Míriel in dreams” — “that seems like a good idea,” Irmo intercut.” 

“It’s just that… I’m not sure it’s a good idea to plan them at all. She’s so tired of being told what to do. I think it might be more effective (and, dare I say enjoyable?) to enter solely into the blank slate of her mind.” 

“Oh, you’re going to enter in, not just guide from outside?”

“Yes,” said Estë carefully. “If that’s okay.” 

“Of course,” said Irmo. “It’s not like you belong solely to me. But are you sure you’re comfortable subjecting yourself to whatever her mind creates? 

“No. I’m not comfortable. I’m tingly all over, and I’m nervous not knowing what we’ll see or do, and how she’ll react. But I am also really excited, and I think she could use the adventure.”

Irmo nodded. “Do you even know how to work with dreams? I could try to teach you, but even I have never gone inside the dreams of one of the Children.”

“I hope so,” said Estë. “In the quiet thickness of twilight I’ve explored my mind on the edge of sleep; it’s a vast and yet familiar landscape. It’s also incredibly restful. And I do have middle of the night dreams; but I don’t know them as you do, of course.”

“From what I understand, the parts of sleep you know are more liminal, though. You know the edge and the depths, but little of the middle where more full fledged dream plots occur.

Estë lightly hit Irmo on the cheek. “That’s what I just said. What a great idea you had!” Estë continued sarcastically.

“But it’s true, I am not as familiar as I could be with your type of dreams. That just means this will involve new experiences, for Míriel and I both. And besides; it has to be me.”

“Why?” asked Irmo.

“Because you know nothing of rest. Which is exactly what she needs. Your mind runs dizzily, unceasingly.”

“In truth,” said Irmo. “I’ve always been afraid of your rest. Even just thinking about the time before Eru sang us into being, when we were all at rest, makes my insides turn to jelly and a deep dread spread throughout me. And then I have to distract myself by thinking of lively things or else I’ll sink too deep! Even just talking about it now I feel some phantom fear, and am concentrating on you and on this sturdy house so it begins to dissipate.”

“It has never frightened me,” said Estë. “Rest is my haven. It has an allure all it’s own, and can bring everything into such sharp focus I want to cry out in awe sometimes. But I think you’re equating things that shouldn’t necessarily be equated, (which is dangerous as it can cause you to fear more and more things as anything that might possibly relate to the feared experience gets pushed under.) Specifically, you’re equating rest at night with both death and whatever comes before and after Ea. For consolation regarding the first, I suggest you speak to your brother. For the second, well, no one can truthfully claim to know! But regarding that, I find it calming that we’re all in this the same be we Vala or Maia, Quend or Man. 

I also think you don’t really understand my rest, just as, or perhaps more than, I don’t understand your dreams. Rest holds no fear for me because it’s either nothingness, which causes no pain and leaves me all warm and rejuvenated, or it’s what I call everythingness, which could be described as loss of self but which I would describe as pure calm and the lack of a barrier between myself and the rest of Ea. I am especially lucky when I get the everythingness, but I relish both.”

“Thank you for sharing your fascinating perspective,” said Irmo. “I can’t say I’ve experienced what you call everythingness, but I want to.”

“I can help you with that,” said Estë. “There won’t be time for it tonight, but l would love to teach you about that soon.”

“That sounds wonderful,” said Irmo. “I am comforted to hear that rest is not just oblivion, and I would love to hear and experience more of your thoughts. Maybe I could share some of my skills with you too. It’s been too long since we’ve set aside time for that.”

Irmo wrapped his arms around Estë, making them wide and branch-like, and wrapping them more than once so that they exuded a quiet pressure. Estë leaned into him, and felt her whole body softening. They swayed there for a minute, which greatly strengthened Estë’s resolve. 

Then Irmo spoke, saying, “I’m sure you’ll be okay tonight. From what I’ve heard Míriel is perfectly assertive of what she wants, so it’s not like you’ll have to be guessing. And if what you find feels too dark to handle, darker than both of you expected?” His cheeks dimpled. “Well, you’re the queen of the dark. You always take it in and find the beauty in it, find the value. You take it between your nimble fingers and smooth or rumple it accordingly until what comes out is a perfect storm to facilitate healing. And if you get scared or too uncomfortable, you can always ask to be left alone for a few minutes. It is within your power to do that.” 

“Thank you,” said Estë, voice muffled into Irmo’s neck. “I cherish you.”

—————————————————————

“Míriel?” Estë called as she knocked on the door of Míriel’s room in the Halls of Mandos. The door opened and Estë had to stifle a smile that was spreading a little too wide.

Míriel looked resplendent tonight. Not that she hadn’t been beautiful before. But now, with the little changes that had been made to her appearance and room (presumably due to her being in a different mood), well, it was unavoidable, at the forefront of Estë׳s mind. The air in Míriel’s room was now fizzing pleasantly on Estë’s skin, a sharp cry from its earlier density. The combination of that sensation and Estë’s realization that she was attracted to Míriel caused her to remain transfixed for a few moments. 

Míriel was looking at her strangely. Estë snapped out of it and pushed those thoughts aside for the time being in order to grab Míriel’s arms and lead her through the winding Halls. (She had made the bones of a mind map while being guided by Námo, and finalized it while weeding in the Gardens.)

When they left the colorful yet gloomy, seemingly unending Halls of Mandos, fresh, cool air and pale silver light greeted them. Estë could feel Míriel’s fëa moving, tightening and solidifying at the chill, as if by reflex. Estë’s stomach tightened too. Míriel wasn’t speaking yet, so Estë didn’t either.

There weren’t too many stars visible because of the brightness of Telperion. Varda had protested this greatly, and Estë had backed her, citing how prominent the stars were in Elven lore, as well as explaining that the nearer to total darkness the night was, the deeper and more enriching the sleep. But they were ultimately overruled, and Estë did have some sympathy to the decision, especially to the point that many of the Unbegotten Eldar carried trauma and fear in relation to total darkness; had two many memories of loved ones whisked away in the dark. It had been a controversial and complex decision, to say the least. 

Drawn back to the present by the appearance of a mountain ahead, Estë turned to Míriel. “I would like to lift you higher, and move you faster than you yourself know how to move. If you stay in spirit form, I can, with time, teach you how to change forms and move more freely, but for now you would be holding onto me. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” said Míriel. And Estë transformed — starting at the arms and moving up and down — into something resembling a large pelican.

Míriel let out an exclamation of surprise.

Estë pulled Míriel’s squishy, vapory form — not half as solid as the bodies of the Valar, probably because it was formed in haste and without direction — into her arms, and felt it changing; thinning and spreading to fill the space. Estë grew worried. “Are you okay?” 

“...Yes,” said Míriel, sounding strained. “Aah, there. Now it‘s settling in.” 

“Good,” was all Estë could think to say.

And then they were off, air whipping past as they soared over the mountains. They could have walked between them, this was true, but flying was faster and more fun. 

—————————————————————

Míriel couldn’t help but gasp as she was gently dropped on the familiar edge of the Gardens of Lórien. 

It looked so different at night! The wisteria filled pergola and trellis that marked the entrance was such a rich violet blue. She tentatively touched a flower. It was as soft as Fëanáro’s young skin! Do not think about Fëanáro, she chided herself, but the mood had already soured. Back in Tirion, she had practically made a living out of holding back tears; rushing away to let them spill off of her in stolen minutes, and then carefully holding her fluid face into a guise of happiness and civility, so tightly it almost hurt. She would not do that here! She let herself cry, and trailed her fingers along the roots that were now starting to climb up the pathway.

Míriel stepped off the main gravelled path and followed Estë, past the carefully tended rose gardens, past the shrubs and field of lavender, past the fir trees, all the way to the lake. She heard the fountains bubbling at different frequencies all around her, carrying differing levels of calming, somnolent energy. When they reached the lake, Estë supported Míriel to glide across it, but she was mostly able to support herself, only having to lift up slightly.

They landed on the bite-sized island, by now already feeling quite drowsy. It was filled with a combination of tall grasses that swayed slightly in the breeze from the lake, and soft, thick moss.

“This is my favorite bedchamber,” said Estë. Although not my only one, and usually I rest here during Laurelin’s hours.” 

“It’s lovely,” said Míriel.

Míriel’s tears had dried and, having felt them, she now felt herself being passively filled with the beauty of Lórien, which left little room for anything else. She felt intensely aware of the space around her. The lake was surrounded by thick tree cover, mostly evergreens with big branching leaves, which lent Lórellin its shade and left swooping reflections in the water. Míriel nestled in next to Estë and let herself drift off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Sand. Sand everywhere. And wind. There was a cool wind blowing. Emptiness. Piling sand, piling wind, swept into the air. The being that was known as Míriel looked down, and saw a body forming from the sand. This is my body! Or it once was. Sky, sky! Up she was lifted. She turned on her side and the sky was all she could see. Giggle. Spreading, stretching, reaching, reaching. Grainy, but a grip on the sky. She was holding up the sky. And at that moment, she flooded back into her limited Self. It was harsh and rushing, a sudden implosion. If left a ringing in her ears. 

“Where am I?” thought Míriel. Looking down to see the land far below, Míriel screamed and began to fall. Her stomach flew up. She tensed all around, face contorted. She landed. It did not hurt. She was sinking into the soft, warm sand, her body creating a mark. A billowy circular wall of sand rose up to surround her, and it seemed to reach out in comfort, rather than to trap. 

She was watching it, entranced, when out came Estë. Her typical dull but comfortable looking clothes had been replaced by a pleated skirt in reds and yellows, and a shirt as blue as a refreshing pool of water. Furthermore, there was a peculiar lizard on her shoulder! Míriel wondered if Estë had purposefully changed her raiment or if it had just happened when she entered the dream.

“Well, this is an unexpected landscape,” said Estë, sounding like she was attempting to be humorous. “Is it a location you know?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” said Míriel. “It must be based on one of the deserts outside of Tirion in which I spent so much time when I was young. It doesn’t look quite like any of them, though. It’s vaster, for one. 

“Aah, so it’s your youth,” Estë responded. “Before Finwë?”

Míriel nodded. “I liked to lie in the sand and streeeetch as far as I could. And to hide from the sun and the people in caves or in the shade of boulders.”

“That sounds nice,” said Estë. “Let’s explore. Remember, the dream responds to your intention, sometimes even when that intention is not consciously put into words.”

They walked straight through the sand wall, Míriel following Estë without hesitation. It tickled. 

“Estë?” said Míriel.

“Yes?”

“Is your lizard… part of you? Can your fëa break into pieces? Or is it distinct and just hanging on for the ride?”

Estë smiled at the question. “Yes, she is part of my fëa. I could spread myself into a million separate, connected creatures, living though all of their bodies, if I so chose. And that would be every bit as much my “real form” as the one you see before you, for both are created of my imagination. But that doesn’t stop them from having very real effects on my experience and the experiences of others. May I change?”

“Sure,” said Míriel. 

And right as the word left Míriel’s mouth, Estë did, becoming at least a thousand lizards, of all sizes, climbing up and down the sand and wandering to and fro. Some climbed onto Míriel’s willing arm. And then at once they rose into the air, jumping and spinning into a lizard whirlwind that circled Míriel before ultimately landing at her feet. The Estë lizards began moving separately again. 

A large vehicle came over the horizon, gliding slowly over the sand. It’s great brass door opened and out came a swarm of people. They appeared to be heading straight for Míriel. 

Míriel started to walk in the other direction, nervousness bubbling. Estë, now back in a fána resembling those of the Eldar, touched her shoulders and gently whispered in her ear, “Talk to them. See what, specifically, they want.” Míriel wasn’t so sure about doing that. Estë moved around and kissed her cheek. She flushed moderately, and felt bubbly in a different way. She nodded “Okay.”

But the closer the people got, the rockier and taller the landscape became, starting out as disparate boulders but soon growing into a reluctant rock face — unified, but just barely. And this rock face was rising unevenly, so that parts had little headspace save for in the clouds, and others were naught but an inch off the ground. It was an inspiring, if slightly discomfiting sight. 

Estë and Míriel were somewhere in the middle; not in the clouds, but not safely able to jump to the ground either.

“Wow,” said Estë. “Did you ask for this?”

“Not… on purpose,” said Míriel. “I can’t exactly go talk to them now.” 

Míriel looked at the people. They were rather amusing actually, now that she could view them from a distance. Each was doing a distinct stereotypically surprised, or scared, or amazed action. One had her hands on her face and her mouth in a circle. Another was jumping and twirling, as if flirting with danger. Another had his feet dangling. Still another had her arms raised to the sky. Some people were on one large rock and engaging in a group hug. Other rocks were so close together that people were doing splits across the dividing line. “I could watch this for hours,” said Míriel. “This is much more entertaining than I expected.”

Estë was looking at Míriel. “It is indeed.” She paused. “You could still talk to them, though. Remember that in dreams you are infinite; waking rules do not apply. Just as earlier you were holding up the sky, now you can fly over to them, as long as you don’t let your fear take hold.”

“But I wasn’t… myself then, or at least not the self that I know. I didn’t have my internal dialogue.”

“Well then, you were lucky. You got a glimpse of how to be fearless. Now you can channel it.”

“I’ll try,” said Míriel. She took a deep breath and stepped to the edge of the rock. The sand looked so far away. “Which people should I talk to?” she called to Estë, yelling although it took her a minute to recognize why. She had leaned into the wind, a wind which picked up just as she leaned into it. 

“Whoever feels right,” called Estë. “Or, conversely, whoever makes you uncomfortable. Just talk to someone.”

She jumped.The wind was fresh and sibilant, rushing. At first she dropped down, like a bumpy carriage ride, but after a few drops she stopped falling. She stayed up, holding Estë’s voice in her mind. She assayed the people, and very quickly zeroed in on one — Finwë! The wind carried her to him.

“Finwë,” said Míriel. 

Finwë looked at her.. “Míriel,” he said, and to her it almost was as if he expected her.

Míriel stood up a little straighter, squaring her shoulders. “Why are you here?”

At this Finwë chuckled. Once, Míriel had loved his laughter. “To see you, of course,” he told her, holding her gaze. “It’s been so long.” 

This did not sound like the Finwë Míriel knew. He would have been barraging her with questions about how exactly it was that he was able to see her. It must have been only her mind’s approximation of him. Still, she would talk as if it was really him. It still affected her to see him here, even if it wasn’t real. 

“It has not. It’s only been a few days.”

“Feels like longer,” said Finwë, a dramatic, far away look in his eyes like he used to tease her with when they were young. 

“You know I had to leave. Or,” Míriel looked downcast, “You don’t. I loved you once. But I think you loved your fervent idea of me. Maybe I loved my idea of you, too. You filled every spare moment, you and all of Tirion, and I so desperately needed expansiveness, needed silence. Of which I now have plenty.”

Dream-Finwë nodded. “You were phenomenal, stunning, brilliant. You always were — and always will be. But what’s done is done.” His lip began to quiver. “And I can never have you. Not until the end of Arda. You wanted less of me? Well, you got it. You’ve severed yourself wholly.” And at this young Fëanáro appeared at his side, hugging his father’s legs tightly. Finwë glanced at Míriel one last time, and then walked with Fëanáro into the wind. 

Míriel stared after them. And then she dropped down, face rent with grief. The entire landscape fell around her, breaking and bubbling into something else entirely. Fire. And mud. Mud slowly being heated, as if on a furnace, slowly being dried out by the fire that was kept just barely at bay. Míriel wasn’t thinking. And then Estë was upon her, grabbing her arms and holding them tightly against her chest, lying in the mud with her. Míriel cried into Estë, body clenching. They laid there for what seemed like an age, falling into restfulness. Míriel had no sense of the time. 

And then Míriel lifted Estë’s face and kissed her deeply. Míriel wrapped her hands, which had long dropped limply to her side, fully around Estë, and moved herself closer, trying to line up with as much of Estë as possible.

Estë kissed back, lost in the moment. Then she pulled away.

Her voice was soft. “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” said Míriel. “So much.” In truth, she hadn’t realized this until just now, lying here with Estë. Estë who had always taken care of her, both in life and in death. Estë who was so tender and so… exquisite. But now it was all she could think about. 

They kissed again, softer this time. Míriel broke the kiss for a moment and trailed her fingers around Estë’s stomach and all the way down her body. As she did so they sank deeper, deeper, until there was no color, and no sound. The ground was getting softer, and also less clear, as drowsiness filled Míriel’s eyelids. And then they were open, and she was on the grass, slightly wet with morning dew. Estë opened her eyes, and Míriel shivered pleasantly to see Estë so clearly desiring her. She, who was conversely less solid now than she had been in the dream state. Well, no matter. Solidity was a matter of will. 

Míriel felt stronger than she had before, more proud. She was ready to explore this new, wonderful life that she had.

They held each other as the world grew steadily brighter.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sweet Surrender Playlist](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28552686) by [2Nienna2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Nienna2/pseuds/2Nienna2)




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